familiar hum lulls me into my chair, and I type the address for the Donor Sibling Registry into the Web browser. My right hand rests on the mouse and I pull the cursor over to the login field. All I have to do is type in my info. I sit there, frozen with both panic and excitement. What if I find another branch of Donor 142’s genetic family tree? What if I don’t? Will I feel even more alone then?
I lift my hand from the mouse and, without debating further, shut down the computer. I bring my knees up to my chest and stare at the monitor’s black screen, knowing that what’s lurking around the corner will reveal itself eventually.
EIGHT
I spend the next day earning my studio time by fetching coffee for Sid Sleethly and the more accomplished artists at Downtown. I hope it’ll take my mind off other things, but being surrounded by all these talented people makes me anxious about the art show. I just don’t know if I have
it
in me, and if I do, I highly doubt that I will be able to discover it and create some sort of masterpiece in less than two weeks.
After his fifth cup of coffee, Sid would most likely agree with me.
“So you see, Jenny Fitzgerald,” he says as he gestures to a giant rectangular canvas that takes up the better part of one of the washed concrete walls, “this is an example of
true
inspiration. The artist was able to properly convey the interior complexities and turn them outward into the visual medium.”
I’m convinced he talks like this to make people think he’s smarter than he is, or at least that he’s not just a washed-up has-been. It’s all I can do not to respond with sarcasm, so instead, I offer up this question in the hope he’ll find it in his heart to help me. “In terms of the art show, though. Are you looking for something specific? I mean, is there a certain style you’d like to see, or am I just supposed to—”
He cuts me off with a hard glare from behind his dark-framed glasses. The look says it all—he dropped his heart somewhere back in New York City a decade ago. “‘Supposed to’? There’s no
supposed to
in art. Dear God! How do you expect to create anything when you’re out of touch with…” He mumbles to himself. He shakes his head and wanders off to bother someone far superior to me.
At this rate I’ll be lucky to get him to even consider any of my paintings for the show, let alone display them. He’s explained that slots are limited, and the goal of the show is to actually sell the work, not just exhibit it. I’d say my chances are like scoring a home run during a rain delay—impossible.
I tend to the next project at hand: cleaning up the mess that is the artists’ lounge. When I think about it, Sid may have a shruken, prune-sized heart, but he has allowed me to become Downtown’s prized indentured servant in lieu of charging me for studio time. But as I check out the number of empty coffee cans that are set to the side of the industrial sink and calculate how long it’s going to take me to wash and dry each can so they can be filled with turpentine and cleaning agents, I go back to my original assumption—Sid is the Devil.
Before I attempt that task, I walk around the lounge and pick up crumpled balls of paper, stray pencils, and half-started sketches littering the ground. I collect signs that read THIS IS MY SANDWICH—DON’T TOUCH IT and IF THIS IS YOUR BRUSH, IT WON’T BE IF YOU KEEP LEAVING IT HERE and stack them on one side of the long communal table, where the artists share lunches, have meetings, and read art history books. The tabletop is coated with years of dried paints and goop. Sometimes I like to sit here and look at the swirls and pray for inspiration to hit me.
A dollop of yellow calls to mind the end of summer sun outside, and a streak of blue dotted with yellow looks like my eyes. I wonder if Tate noticed my eyes last night, just as I noticed his. I wonder if there is someone else out there whose eyes duplicate mine. Maybe
I lift my hand from the mouse and, without debating further, shut down the computer. I bring my knees up to my chest and stare at the monitor’s black screen, knowing that what’s lurking around the corner will reveal itself eventually.
EIGHT
I spend the next day earning my studio time by fetching coffee for Sid Sleethly and the more accomplished artists at Downtown. I hope it’ll take my mind off other things, but being surrounded by all these talented people makes me anxious about the art show. I just don’t know if I have
it
in me, and if I do, I highly doubt that I will be able to discover it and create some sort of masterpiece in less than two weeks.
After his fifth cup of coffee, Sid would most likely agree with me.
“So you see, Jenny Fitzgerald,” he says as he gestures to a giant rectangular canvas that takes up the better part of one of the washed concrete walls, “this is an example of
true
inspiration. The artist was able to properly convey the interior complexities and turn them outward into the visual medium.”
I’m convinced he talks like this to make people think he’s smarter than he is, or at least that he’s not just a washed-up has-been. It’s all I can do not to respond with sarcasm, so instead, I offer up this question in the hope he’ll find it in his heart to help me. “In terms of the art show, though. Are you looking for something specific? I mean, is there a certain style you’d like to see, or am I just supposed to—”
He cuts me off with a hard glare from behind his dark-framed glasses. The look says it all—he dropped his heart somewhere back in New York City a decade ago. “‘Supposed to’? There’s no
supposed to
in art. Dear God! How do you expect to create anything when you’re out of touch with…” He mumbles to himself. He shakes his head and wanders off to bother someone far superior to me.
At this rate I’ll be lucky to get him to even consider any of my paintings for the show, let alone display them. He’s explained that slots are limited, and the goal of the show is to actually sell the work, not just exhibit it. I’d say my chances are like scoring a home run during a rain delay—impossible.
I tend to the next project at hand: cleaning up the mess that is the artists’ lounge. When I think about it, Sid may have a shruken, prune-sized heart, but he has allowed me to become Downtown’s prized indentured servant in lieu of charging me for studio time. But as I check out the number of empty coffee cans that are set to the side of the industrial sink and calculate how long it’s going to take me to wash and dry each can so they can be filled with turpentine and cleaning agents, I go back to my original assumption—Sid is the Devil.
Before I attempt that task, I walk around the lounge and pick up crumpled balls of paper, stray pencils, and half-started sketches littering the ground. I collect signs that read THIS IS MY SANDWICH—DON’T TOUCH IT and IF THIS IS YOUR BRUSH, IT WON’T BE IF YOU KEEP LEAVING IT HERE and stack them on one side of the long communal table, where the artists share lunches, have meetings, and read art history books. The tabletop is coated with years of dried paints and goop. Sometimes I like to sit here and look at the swirls and pray for inspiration to hit me.
A dollop of yellow calls to mind the end of summer sun outside, and a streak of blue dotted with yellow looks like my eyes. I wonder if Tate noticed my eyes last night, just as I noticed his. I wonder if there is someone else out there whose eyes duplicate mine. Maybe
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